


Part of your Story

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Speaking in Tongues [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Child Abuse, Past Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 17:56:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9249281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Sherlock finally examines John's hands.





	

Sherlock strode into the kitchen, wincing as he jarred the wound on his upper arm. His scarf was ruined, that much was clear, and without being asked, he hopped up on the kitchen table, waiting for John to do his part of their now well-worn dance. John had disappeared upstairs for his medical kit, and now he thundered down again, with the usual over concern that he usually did, Sherlock thought, though he wasn’t irritated. It was only a graze, barely even a wound at all, really, but John always insisted on treating Sherlock himself.

Without asking, John started undoing Sherlock’s shirt buttons, then shed the shirt and jacket as one, exposing the miles of pale skin, now marred by this long angry slash, testament to how good a shot their man almost was.

"You’re lucky you’d taken the Belstaff off," John noted, “there’s only so much repair one coat can take, you know.” He gently took the scarf from the wound, the blood oozing now more than gushing. “Keep that there, you’ll need some stitches,” he said absently, looking for local anaesthetic in his kit.

Sherlock’s gaze was fixed on John’s hand, which had acquired a new nasty looking burn in their adventure that day. “What happened to your hand?” Sherlock asked.

John looked down, surprised to see the angry welt. “Don’t know,” he said, prepping the local anaesthetic and numbing the area on Sherlock’s upper arm. He stood back, examining his hand as they waited for the drug to take effect.

“Might have burned it against that exhaust pipe when we were hiding behind the car?” John mused, poking at it experimentally. When John reached for the burn cream, Sherlock had it in hand already.

Sherlock murmured, “May I?” After a moment’s hesitation, John nodded. Sherlock’s hands were warm and gentle as he spread the cream over the small burn, and he said quietly, “I thought you were going to tell me about these scars one day?”

John blinked. Sherlock’s mood was more reflective than usual after the thrill of a closed case.

“Yes,” John said, “I was. Am. Will.” 

Sherlock looked at him expectantly.

John said, “What. Now?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Nothing more pressing, is there?”

“Let me at least stitch you up first,” John sighed, reaching for the tools of his trade as he did so, snapping on gloves.

“I can tell you about some already, you can read a man’s life story in his hands,” Sherlock said, with a flash of his usual arrogance.

John smiled to himself. “Of course you can,” he agreed, focussing on keeping his stitches small and neat.

“There’s a small curved one at the base of your left thumb, probably a bramble thorn or similar, you have several across both your hands but they are well healed so at least 20 years old.”

“Blackberries,” John admitted, tying off his thread, “I was always too impatient to be eating to watch for the thorns.” He wiped antiseptic cream over the wound, covered it with gauze and removed his glove.

Sherlock went on, “Burns here from hot shell casings. Probably Army, given the level of healing. You’re clearly left handed, this thumb and forefinger are less well developed and lack the subtle callouses of the dominant hand.”

John had discarded his gloves now, and Sherlock picked up his right hand, bringing it close to his face and examining the small scars across the webbing between thumb and forefinger.

“Bite?” he asked.

John nodded, through the odd pounding of his heart. This was strangely intimate, even for Sherlock with his obliviousness to personal space.

“Small dog?” Sherlock asked.

John grinned. “Small Harry,” he answered, and Sherlock looked shocked. John shrugged. “Don’t worry I gave as good as I got,” he replied, turning his hands over and looking at them. He smiled a little sadly, then sobered a little.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

John said quietly, “Its’s not my hands that tell the tale of my life, Sherlock, it’s the rest of me.” Sherlock looked confused, then wary.

“Most of my scars aren’t on my hands,” John said. He indicated with one hand as he listed off the scars on the rest of his body.

“Shoulder, shot in the Army.  Left knee, dog bite that became infected. Abdomen, appendix. Upper arm, vaccinations. Right shin, bike accident when I was a child,” John paused, then admitted, “Upper arm, Army tattoo.” Sherlock looked a little surprised until John added even more quietly, “Upper thighs – that’s where dad would strap me with his belt.”

John could feel Sherlock’s uncertainty radiating off him, so he said quickly, “It was a long time ago, but it’s part of my story.”

They had been standing quite close, Sherlock still perched on the table, and John realised that his right hand was still being cradled by Sherlock’s. Without too much thought, John looked down, turning Sherlock’s long hand over in his own shorter fingers. “Chemistry set?” he asked, seeing the faint discoloration.

Sherlock’s deep voice confirmed it, though amusement added, “Not as a boy, as you’re thinking, John, I still have a chemistry set, of sorts.”

John grinned, nodding. Their kitchen table was the only area of the kitchen out of bounds, mainly so he had somewhere clean to stitch Sherlock up when they finished a case bleeding, like today.

“I’d say you had a fairly unadventurous childhood, Sherlock, based on the lack of scars,” John said.

Sherlock sighed, bringing his other hand up to join it’s pair. “John, can’t you tell I play violin, or that I’m right handed, or that I once smoked hand rolled cigarettes?”

“I know all that already, I don’t need your hands to tell me!” Jon protested good-naturedly.

Sherlock turned his hands over in John’s, showing John as he spoke. “Callouses here from holding the bow.” He ran his left fingertips over John’s palm, followed by the right, sending shivers down John’s spine, as he said, “Left fingertips roughened from pressing on the strings.” He then showed John, “the same indicators of hand dominance as you display, also discolouration here indicative of a specific type of tobacco leaves.” They stood quietly for a moment, before Sherlock said intently, “What else do you see, John?” 

John didn’t speak. He knew what he saw, and he knew what it meant, but he didn’t want to say the words.

“What do you mean?” he asked, and caught Sherlock’s ‘really, John?’ face. John took a deep breath and spread the fingers of the left hand, displaying the tiny track marks visible in the webbing. “Evidence of IV drug use,” he said quietly.

Sherlock nodded, flexing his fingers slightly, making the marks twist and turn as his fingers moved. “Not any more, though,” Sherlock said, “Now I have…other ways of dealing with things.”

John nodded silently, not wanting to ask, not wanting the answer, perhaps. He could feel Sherlock waiting, their hands still intertwined.

“You know,” John said, gently letting Sherlock’s hands go, turning to clean up the medical waste they had created, “I was there for almost all of the scars I can see on your torso.”

Sherlock looked down automatically, tracing several scars with a fingertip. He smiled. “You’re part of my story, then,” he said, then added, “And now with that burn, I’m part of yours,” satisfaction clear in his voice.

John smiled at him, unconsciously touching the new burn on his hand. “Yeah,” he agreed, “I suppose you’re right.”


End file.
